“Oh, he’s perfectly safe, Mr. Hanly! He’s too safe! But, you see, I’ve ridden all my life, and I can’t ride him. I really can’t! Haven’t you something else?” Mr. Hanly considered. Yes, he had a saddle-horse belonging to a Hillcrest gentleman, who was away at present, but who had left word that his horse might be exercised. Still, he would hardly venture to saddle him for Virginia. He was safe enough, but inclined to take the bit in his teeth. No, he would not dare to allow her to have him. Still, she might look at him if she liked. Virginia swung herself off Napoleon, and went in the stable to view the horse described. He was assuredly not in the same class as Napoleon. She knew by his build that he was a good saddle-horse. She must have him, she thought to herself. Fifteen minutes later, the persuaded, if not convinced, Mr. Hanly was somewhat dubiously removing the saddle from poor, perspiring Napoleon, and strapping it, with Virginia’s help, on the back of the black horse. In another moment Virginia was up and away, leaving Mr. Hanly, who was watching her, somewhat reassured in the doorway. This was something like riding, she told herself, as she cantered along the country road. The black horse, though nothing like her own Pedro, was still a good horse. He could even singlefoot, and did not have the asthma. She rode miles into the country beyond St. Helen’s. The afternoon was perfect—one of those autumn afternoons when the summer lingers, loath to go; when the leaves drift slowly down, and the air is filled with an unseen chorus; and when all about an Unseen Presence makes itself felt, and causes one to feel in harmony with the God of the Out-of-doors. Virginia’s cheeks were rosy red; her hair was flying in the wind, for she had lost her ribbon, and had long since stuffed her cap in her pocket; her eyes were glowing with happiness. She reached the Five Mile Crossways and turned back toward home. Then the black horse showed his paces. He fairly flew over the road, Virginia delighting in his every motion. One mile—two—three—he galloped furiously. They were within a mile of St. Helen’s. Virginia sought to quiet him, but he was on the homeward way, and he knew it. They rounded a curve, still on the gallop, when some rods ahead, Virginia espied a lone figure in a gray shawl. It was Miss Green. Virginia strove with all her might to pull the black horse into a walk so that she might speak, but he did not choose to walk; and it was with a considerably lessened, but, to the startled Miss Green, furious gallop that they passed, Virginia waving her hand as her only means of salutation. She heard Miss Green’s peremptory and horrified command for her to stop, but she could not heed it. Her mind was at that time completely occupied with wondering if the horse would willingly turn into the avenue leading to St. Helen’s. Fortunately he did, perhaps imagining it for a new entrance to his stable, and Virginia disappeared from sight among the pines.